Ten weeks to glory.

My assault on this year’s scratch championship isn't getting off to a great start. I’ve got the talent, no question, and the mental fortitude to deal with high pressure situations, it’s just my health. I hobbled off Royal Aberdeen after 14 holes recently and finished my round at Forfar crawling on my hands and knees, I’ve not played since. It’s my back. I had an MRI scan and get the results in a week, that’s  if the radiographer hasn’t reported me for exposure. It wasn’t my fault the gown fell open to reveal my furniture, she didn’t tell me I could leave my Y-fronts on.

Meantime, I’m continuing a rehabilitation process recommended by my physio, she wangled me a free four week membership at the Nuffield, a posh gym in town. I’m not exercising to lose three stone and clinch a modelling contract, I’m there to keep my back supple and create a sense of overall mental wellbeing ahead of the championship, nevertheless, it’s chastening to enter a changing room littered with firm muscles and tanned skin when you’ve got a physique like Christopher Biggins. I carry fifteen stones of blubber, a wobbly blancmange of midriff beneath an unsightly moob mountain, I couldn't get my gear on quick enough in the changing rooms for fear of anyone seeing me naked, I then took the lift up to the gymnasium, after I’d evacuated my bowels.

I spent a half hour on the cross trainer before visiting the stretching area to do ‘the plank’, a static stretch in the press up position aimed at strengthening the base of your spine. Trouble is my back is so weak that I was shuddering like a sh#tting puppy so I had to pack that stretch in sharpish, I went back on the cardio for a few more minutes then called this first session quits. Returning to the changing rooms, l caught a glimpse of my naked self in the mirror. My word am I out of shape, a grotesque wobble fest of palid lard, a sobering sight indeed . I wrapped a towel around my girth to conceal my glory but did it too tightly, my moobs now even more prominent, hanging forlornly above the towel band.  I know I’m not built like a brick outhouse or likely to be nominated as the next Bond, but the rolls of flab crowning my hips and puffy man breasts covering my ribs were a horrific sight indeed.

So it’s now dawned on me that a diet of pies, chips and puddings will not benefit my bid to win the championship. Strapping myself in every teatime for mammoth belch inducing, bowel busting festivals of food will no longer do. This visit to the gym has fortified my resolve to get in shape, a sensible diet alongside a ten week fitness regime will have me turning up on the first tee for the championship looking like a Greek God. Lack of practice isn’t an issue, class is permanent and I’ll turn on the birdies like a tap, I just need to ensure my fitness is such that I can complete the 72 holes. I start tomorrow (after I’ve watched the football and polished off tonight’s takeaway leftovers). Look out Stoney, there’s a new sheriff coming to town.